Pain is as soft
as her gossamer cloak,
with brightly claws of turmoil brewing
seas of hope,
just beneath the wave-crest,
barely touching dawn even
on the horizon where eyes of the moon
rest to wait on her pain. Pain —
with its phases through and through,
the caref’lly-crafted doubts,
the ill-refined unwillingness,
the nothingness in between,
this is a subtle void,
a rest amidst a stormy song,
a dirge unshackled, buried long
before symptoms of sickness made
the poorest heart its home. Pain
leads the humble beast to build —
with its mind’s simplicity — dreams
as tangible as the nature of these
fleeting, passing, fading pictures. How
only a fool could write it, thus,
and believe it to stand firm. Pain
is caution. Pain is dire.
Pain is beautiful.
Pain is fire.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
I’d like to think poets in pain communicate and write more effectively. It’s like… we need it. Not healthy to linger on it for too long though.